The Other Option
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: Wilson didn't meet House before the infarction and that changed how the infarction went. Then they meet, five years later.


Wilson sits, hunched over the bar, and closes his eyes.

His fingers slip on his glass a little, as he raises it to his lips.

The beer is cold, and the music is great–both of which annoy him immensely.

He wants this to suck as much as his marriage.

He wants to wallow in it, and he can't, because of the damned piano player who just has to be that goddamn good.

He turns around on his stool, to better glare across the room at the only person he can really focus his anger on–if he glares at the bartender, she'll stop bringing him drinks, which would suck even more than pleasantly cold drinks do.

The musician is tall, Wilson can tell even though the man is sitting down. Tall, with a few days of stubble; short, brown, unkempt hair; wearing a sky blue shirt and a pair of worn jeans.

Wilson hates him even more, for not being a fat, pompous guy who looked like he thought the world of himself.

This guy looked like he was born to be playing in this bar, though he played way better than any musician in a dive like this had a right to.

Wilson has just reached the tipping point, between the fourth and fifth beers, where he is drunk enough to not be polite, but not drunk enough to be incapacitated.

He gets up, and walks across the room, and stands, glaring at the pianist.

The man looks up at him, and Wilson sees that his eyes are even bluer than his shirt–though his shirt doesn't look amused, and his eyes do.

"Yes? You have a request or are you just gonna stand there and stare at me?"

"I hate you."

The man looks even more amused at that, "okay. Why?"

"You're too damned good."

The piano player is maybe six, seven years older than Wilson himself, but he looks good for it.

And when he laughs, at Wilson's slightly slurred statement, it makes him look... just perfect.

"Sorry for ruining your misery," he says, with another quiet chuckle.

Wilson blinks at him.

The musician finishes the song he was playing, and lifts his fingers from the keys, "you want me to play something miserable?"

Wilson shakes his head, and then finds out that shaking his head is a bad idea.

He goes down, with barely a grunt.

Then there are long fingers against his neck; strong, sure hands rolling him over.

Fingers and hands doing exactly what he would do as a doctor to make sure a drunken stranger's fall was just the result of the stranger being drunk.

He figures that maybe there was a doctor in the crowd somewhere, but no, when he opens his eyes, he finds that it's the pianist.

He blinks up at the man, stupidly, and then looks down at his liquid covered self.

Since he didn't bring his beer with him from the bar, he realizes he either must have vomited on himself, or spilled someone else's drink.

He tries to sit up, putting his hand behind him, but the pianist grips his shoulders, keeping him from pushing himself up.

"You broke a glass," is the explanation he gets when he glares at the man.

The pianist stands up, awkwardly, pulling himself to his feet on the piano bench.

Lying on the floor in front of him, Wilson realizes that the musician is *very* tall, taller than he is.

But then a hand reaches down, as the pianist grips the edge of the piano, and he feels himself being hauled to his feet.

He stumbles, against the taller man's chest, and feels the pianist almost go down.

"Watch it. I'm not as steady as I look."

Which is a strange statement, because the man looks like an athlete.

Or at least he doesn't look like he has a physical problem.

But Wilson doesn't really care about the pianist anymore, because beer five is taking hold, and his alcohol tolerance sucks.

He hears a scrape of metal over the floor, and then there's a chair behind him, and he's sitting in it.

Then the piano music starts again.

He closes his eyes on blurred vision, and tries not to fall off the chair.

---

When the music stops again, he opens his eyes.

The bar is almost empty–what time is it?

The pianist is over at the bar, and Wilson is reminded that he hasn't paid for his drinks yet.

He gets to his feet, reaching for his wallet, but it's gone.

He looks around, realizing that anyone could have taken it, he was way too drunk to notice.

But then something gets tossed at his head, and he blinks, and picks it up.

It's his wallet, and the pianist just threw it at him.

"You stole my wallet?" he asks, stupidly.

"I paid for your drinks with your wallet."

Wilson blinks, "oh."

Then he staggers a bit.

The pianist looks amused.

"Where's your place?"

"Uh... by the college.... why..."

"Because Lacey's gonna call you a cab."

The pianist clearly meant the bartender.

Wilson nodded, "oh."

He sort of expected the pianist to come back over, but he didn't, just remained leaning against the bar.

The bartender hung up the phone, and nodded to the pianist, "see you tomorrow, House.'

The pianist–House–nodded, then turned to Wilson, "I'm going the same way you are. Mind if we share a cab?"

Wilson shook his head.

The pianist nodded, "good."

He walked over, and Wilson noticed something, an asymmetry about his gait. Not a limp, exactly, just a difference between stepping with the right and stepping with the left.

House picked up his sheet music, and put it into a worn leather case.

Wilson watched him, inexplicably fascinated by the man.

"You're a doctor."

The pianist stopped, and looked at him, then shrugged, "I was a doctor. I quit. Still do consults, sometimes, but mostly I just teach at the college."

"What subject?"

"Diagnostic medicine mostly, sometimes I'll teach a language class, or music. Once in a while geography, chemistry, history, bio... that kind of thing"

"What language?"

"Whatever one they need a teacher for."

"You can teach more than one?"

House shrugged, slinging his bag over his shoulder, "Japanese, Hebrew, Spanish, Chinese–Cantonese, not mandarin, I only know a little mandarin. I can only teach the intro class in Korean, Arabic and Hindi, and I could teach Vietnamese, but they don't do classes in it."

Wilson blinked, slowly, as a man who was probably smarter than most of the department heads at his hospital put together led him out of a seedy bar he worked at.

"Um...."

"What?"

"Why are you playing piano in a bar?"

House laughed outright at that, "because I like their piano. What? Smart people can't play music in crappy bars? It takes a brain to play piano, too, you know."

"Yeah, but..."

They were at the door to the bar, and Wilson pushed the door open and turned around, to ask which seat House wanted in the waiting taxi.

A bicycle suddenly rushed between them, while House was stepping forward.

The older man somehow didn't seem to be able to stop, and he ended up on the sidewalk in a heap of musician, bicyclist, and bicycle..

"Yo, man, you wrecked my bike!"

House glared at the pimply kid, "you rode your bike into me on the sidewalk. In case you hadn't noticed, that's illegal. Being rode into, not so much."

Wilson knelt–the pianist's right leg was trapped pretty good in between the wheel and the frame... it looked like it had to hurt.

House shook his head, though, at Wilson's worried expression, "don't worry. That leg doesn't bruise."

Wilson blinked, slowly, confused by House's statement, and decided that he had misheard the pianist on account of still being drunk.

House untangled himself, and glared at the bicyclist, until the kid fled, walking his relatively unharmed bike.

Wilson got in the cab, and the pianist after him, while he was putting his seatbelt on.

"Where to?"

Wilson gave him his address, when House waved for him to do so.

Had he been less drunk, he probably would have thought that saying his address in front of a scruffy stranger from a crappy bar was a bad idea.

But he was as drunk as he was, and he only realized when they were halfway there that it had been a bad thing to do.

But a few minutes after that, he was too sleepy to really care.

House blinked, as the drunken man slumped onto his lap, clearly smashed out of his mind.

He shook his head, and shoved the younger man off.

Wilson groaned a bit, and blinked himself awake again.

They pulled up in front of Wilson's apartment, which was on a one-way street.

Wilson got out, and stumbled up the steps.

House leaned forward, after watching the man get inside, and told the cab driver his own address.

The doctor–House was pretty sure he was one, since he had identified House as a doctor–wasn't single, judging by his ring, or particularly nice, and he didn't even smell very good, but he was nice to look at and kind of interesting, and had made House laugh a few times tonight, so he figured making sure the guy got home okay was a fair trade.

The taxi pulled away, down the street, to where it widened out into a circle, and turned around.

"Wait a sec," said House, frowning, as he looked out the window.

The door the drunken man had gone in had opened, and the doctor had come out, a fresh splash of liquid across his shirt, though this splash looked more like red wine than House's scotch he had spilled earlier.

He sat down on the bottom step, and pulled out a phone.

Then looked up, seeing that the taxi was sitting there.

He got up, and leaned in the window, "did I forget something?"

House shook his head, "you got kicked out, didn't you?"

Wilson looked back up the steps, then back at the pianist, who seemed amused, as much as anything.

Wilson nodded, slowly.

House shoved the door open, catching Wilson in the knees.

But he didn't care.

He climbed in anyway, and didn't care that this guy could very well be a murderer or... something.

He was too tired to think about that.

He just wanted somewhere to sleep, and the pianist was obviously offering.

He didn't even care if the guy wanted him to sleep *with* him.

Right now, Wilson really wouldn't mind sleeping with someone, anyone, just to get his mind off Julie.

---

The pianist's apartment was nice... really nice.

Neither fancy nor plain, dark wood and creamy walls, and a soft leather sofa.

For a guy who dressed like a bum on the streets, the man had excellent taste.

House told him he could sleep on the couch, and not to wake him before nine.

Wilson nodded, took off one shoe, decided the second was too much trouble, and passed out on the couch.

House watched him for a moment, then chuckled, shaking his head, and went to bed.

---

He was woken around eight by the sound of gagging.

He sat up, annoyed, and took his crutches from where they were leaning against the wall.

The guy from last night was still there, clearly, but now he was in the bathroom, puking.

House snorted, "wow. You're really pathetic."

But the man didn't seem to care, just whimpered pitifully, and reached up, searching vainly for the lever on the wrong side of the toilet.

House rolled his eyes, and pushed it with the tip of a crutch.

Wilson hung his head inside the toilet bowl.

House went back to his bedroom.

When he came out, he was dressed, and the doctor had managed to drag himself out of the bathroom and back to the couch.

"You had crutches a minute ago..." he said, seemingly confused, "didn't you?"

House nodded, rolling his eyes, because... although the observation that he'd had crutches was rather impressive given the guy's head had been in the toilet the entire time, the fact that he was confused by the lack of crutches, rather than the sudden appearance of a lower right leg, told House he wasn't all *that* observant.

"What's your name?"

The guy blinked, slowly, "uh... Dr. James Wilson."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"Nothing. You're an oncologist."

"How...."

House grinned, widely, "I have my methods."

Wilson still only had one shoe on.

And that was how it started.

Not how it ended, though.

A week or so later, Julie hired a lawyer.

He left, got in his car, drove.

Drove until he ended up in front of the seedy dive that he had gone to a week ago.

Sat at a table by the piano, nursing a single beer.

By the time the bar was empty, the pianist had joined him at his table.

Neither of them said much, but Wilson didn't care.

House eventually got up, "I'm going home."

Wilson nodded, rubbing his lip against the edge of his glass.

"You coming?"

Wilson looked up, put down the money for his drink, and followed House outside.

Wilson had been too drunk the last time to remember where House lived, but when he asked House if he wanted to drive there, the answer was a definite no as soon as House glanced at the stick-shift.

Wilson blinked, but got in, and House just told him where to turn.

It was weird.

This whole thing was weird, but the ride was the weirdest part yet.

House was laughing and smiling the whole way there.

Wilson barely said anything, barely smiled, but just being in a car with House made him feel better.

He ended up on House's couch that night, again, and the night after.

---

One morning, he woke up, and realized he'd been sleeping on House's couch for two months.

And while he was wondering how that had happened, how he had come to think of what was really a relative stranger's apartment as home, House came out of his room, walked over, and sat on the couch next to Wilson.

"Two weeks."

Wilson nodded. His settlement appointment.

"You wanna go get smashed?"

Wilson shook his head.

"You gonna say anything today?"

Wilson shrugged.

House rolled his eyes, pronouncing, "you're boring. Make breakfast."

Wilson got up and went to make breakfast.

---

When he came back, House had zonked out over the warm spot on the couch.

Wilson smiled a little. House had been out late last night, Wilson had run into him at the hospital, and he'd explained that he'd been asked to do a consult.

Wilson had given him a ride home at the end of his shift, after House had hung out in his office for a while.

He wondered why House had quit, when he was clearly still capable and willing to be a doctor.... but knew enough about his sort of friend to be sure House would never tell him.

Wilson gently shook the older man's shoulder.

House stirred, but didn't seem happy–he looked like he was in pain; a lot of it.

"What's wrong?" asked Wilson, setting down the plate of pancakes he'd brought out to the .

House shook his head, lethargically, though his hand was clenching violently on the edge of the couch, "wrenched my knee–hurt it a while back, sometimes–ah!" he buried his face in the couch, for a moment, then raised it and continued, shakily, "sometimes is does this... Nothing... nothing to worry about. Just hurts."

Wilson knelt by the couch, resting a hand on the older man's back, "can I get you anything?"

House shook his head, tightly, "no... thanks."

He seemed uncomfortable with the contact, so Wilson removed his hand.

"Meds?"

House swallowed, "uh... yeah. There's a bottle of vicodin in the bathroom... there's more than one prescription bottle in there, so make sure you get the right one."

Wilson nodded, getting to his feet.

He found a lot of expired antibiotics, mostly empty, and finally, the painkillers House had mentioned.

When he came back, the couch cushions were wet under House's head, and his hands were shaking..

Wilson shook a pill out, and handed it to the pained man, with a glass of water.

House tossed it back without touching the water, then took the glass and drank to wash it down.

Wilson stayed kneeling next to the couch, until House's eyes started to get glassy under the effect of the narcotic, and his tortured features became slack and relaxed as the pain diminished.

House slept, and Wilson got up, being sure not to rouse him.

---

Wilson asked about House's reasons for quitting, after doing some googgling and finding out that House had previously worked the same place Wilson worked now, Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Cuddy, the dean of medicine, was happy to see him, but clearly unhappy with the question he asked.

"You know House?"

"I've been sleeping on his couch for two months."

"So you're friends."

"Not really. I'm just sleeping on his couch. He plays piano at a bar, and I went there when Julie told me she'd cheated and got really drunk. I ended up sleeping on his couch."

"That....sounds like him," she said, with a slightly exasperated laugh, "you ever seen him before he was dressed?"

Wilson blinked, "why would I have?"

"If he wanted you to know he would have let you see him before he's dressed."

"...why would he assume I wanted to see him naked?"

She shook her head, "I didn't say naked, I said before he was dressed."

Wilson shook his head.

---

Several months later, House yawned, plopping down on the couch next to Wilson, "I'm going on a trip in a week," he said, conversationally.

Wilson looked at him, "how long?"

"'bout a week."

"Oh."

There was a long, but comfortable silence, before House spoke again.

"You wanna come with me?"

"Where are you going?"

"New York."

"You said you hate cities."

"That's why I'm not going to a city, I'm going upstate. Guy I was in a fellowship with wants me to give some guest lectures on how his class can manage to not be idiots. I told him there wouldn't be enough lectures in the world, but he insisted."

Wilson chuckled.

"About a week?"

"Yeah. Supposed to give four lectures, but the rest of the time is fungible."

Wilson smiled, "I'll have to ask Cuddy for the week off, but sure."

"Cuddy?"

"My boss, the Dean of Medicine where I work."

"Lisa cuddy?"

"Yeah, you know her?"

"You googled me to find out where I used to work, you know I know her."

Wilson didn't even ask how House knew that.

"Okay... yeah, I know you know her."

"I didn't know she made Dean of Medicine, though."

"Well...uh, she did."

House snorted, "got that already."

"Sorry."

House shook his head.

Wilson yawned, "we can take my car, it's less likely to fall apart on the way there."

"If we do that, you're doing all the driving."

Wilson rolled his eyes, "why? You like my car."

"I do."

"Then why..."

"Your car, you drive."

"You're lying."

House looked at him, for a while.

Then he sighed, "I guess you're gonna see it charging in the hotel room anyway."

Wilson blinked at him.

He pulled up his pant leg.

The shin was plastic and metal and not flesh at all.

"I'm not very good at manual transmission."

Wilson stared, for a while, then looked at his friend.

"I've been sleeping on your couch for six months and you never thought to tell me you were missing a limb?"

"Well it's not like you asked."

Wilson blinked, slowly.

"You ask all your friends if they just happen to be missing a limb?"

"No. But then again, there's a characteristic asymmetry to the gait of an amputee that would mean I wouldn't have to ask about legs; arms are even easier to tell than that. And anyway, I don't really have any friends besides you. And you aren't missing a limb."

"...House?"

"What?"

"You're a strange person."

House laughed.

---

Wilson yawned, reaching for his cup of coffee, only to find it not in the cupholder.

He glanced across the center console, at House, who was sipping from the cup.

"I offered to get you some."

"Yours tastes better."

"...gimme."

House rolled his eyes, handing Wilson the cup, "spoilsport."

Wilson glanced at him again, "you can have the whole thing if you tell me why you quit being a doctor."

House regarded him for a moment, then shrugged, "people look at cripples differently. It bugged me. I hated it. So I quit the field I knew people in, started over, and just don't wear shorts. Now the only weird looks I get are the same ones I've been getting my entire life, and are entirely based on my grating personality and crappy hygiene."

Wilson glanced at him a few times, as he drove.

Then he handed the older doctor the cup, "is that why you waited six months to tell me?"

"Maybe."

Wilson snorted.

"And why do you play piano in a crappy bar?"

"I told you that like the day I met you; I just like their piano."

Wilson shook his head, amused, and turned on the radio.

House of course futzed with the stations, but Wilson didn't care.

---

They ended up driving up to Niagara falls, and House was actually glad, when Wilson suggested taking the giant elevator down to the rocks and going up the steps to by the falls–it was clear that he wasn't making assumptions about what House could and couldn't do, and that was definitely a relief.

They were about halfway up the steps, when he felt it start.

He had his cane out, just to steady himself on the slippery steps, and occasionally he ended up grabbing Wilson's arm for stability, when there wasn't enough room to regain his balance by stepping sideways or forwards, but again, Wilson seemed mostly just concerned, and not at all pitying.

But when he went down without warning, Wilson was ready to catch him, though not ready to hear the howl of pain that he was too close to passing out to care about stifling.

He must have fully passed out, because the next thing he knew, he was being shaken, gently.

He opened his eyes, and found his hand was curled over his jeans.

"Is moving you gonna hurt?"

He shook his head.

"There's a bench at the bottom of the steps, you think you can make it?"

House nodded, getting up.

He was still clearly hurting, face pale and lines around his eyes deep.

But he managed the steps okay, though his hand stayed on Wilson's arm when it had only occasionally been there on the way up.

Wilson sat next to him on the bench, "which leg is it?"

House looked at him, silently, flatly.

"I mean, is it actually a knee injury, or is it phantom pain and you just lied the last time 'cause you didn't want me to know you were missing a limb?"

House swallowed, "second."

Wilson nodded, "okay."

House realized that there was a suspicious lack of people staring at him.

Wilson must have said something, after he fell.

He smiled.

Maybe the man was more useful than he thought.

He realized his friend looked really unhappy, upset by his pain.

The pain wasn't easing, exactly, so much as steadying, no longer surging up and robbing him of breath, then receding and leaving him gasping.

He could deal with the steady pain.

It had just been the sudden surge that had caused him to fall and slip out of consciousness. It had caught him off guard, he hadn't been able to brace himself against it, or even sit down.

"It's from how I lost the leg," he said, quietly.

Wilson looked at him, clearly surprised that House was actually volunteering personal information without food as a reward.

"The pain?"

He nodded, awkwardly gripping the plastic covered metal the constituted his thigh, "I had an aneurism. It clotted. They didn't figure it out for three days. By then the muscle had died. There was too much damage, but I didn't want them to take it off. I told them to do a bypass. The pain got worse, to the point where I couldn't handle it and had to let them take it off."

His breath was getting less steady, as he spoke.

Wilson could barely keep himself from touching his friend, trying to comfort him, but he knew it wouldn't be appreciated.

"It feels like the muscle's dying all over again," said House, breathlessly.

Wilson did touch him, then, but only to measure his pulse, curling his fingers around his friend's wrist.

House didn't make him let go, didn't seem to be irritated by the clinical touch as much as he would be by a non-practical one.

He let Wilson leave his hand there, well after the time it took to take his heartrate, though.

By the time the pain had passed, he was exhausted, too tired to want to do anything other than go back to the car and sleep while Wilson drove them home.

But he wasn't going to tell Wilson that, though.

He'd complain, that he was tired, and wanted to go back, but he'd been doing that all morning.

He'd be an asshole like he always was, but Wilson wouldn't care, and they'd go and do stuff like nothing had happened.

And he definitely, *definitely* wasn't going to tell Wilson that he could have taken his pills, that they were in his pocket, but he hadn't wanted to because that would ruin most of the rest of the morning for the younger man

---

Wilson dragged him over to a boat ride that went practical under the falls, and House whined and complained, but didn't tell him no.

They got big blue ponchos, like everyone else on the boat, and Wilson ended up clinging to House's arm, because he couldn't see a thing through the spray.

By the time they were heading back to shore, Wilson was soaked, while House had been holding the neck of his poncho closed, so he was pretty dry.

House laughed at him, and Wilson smiled sheepishly.

They took the elevator back up to the top of the falls, and had lunch at a restaurant nearby.

Wilson was the one who eventually called it a day, deciding he wanted to have dinner back at their hotel.

He was smiling to himself, almost the whole drive back.

Because he really kind of liked the man snoring in the seat next to his.

He enjoyed spending time with him, he enjoyed talking to him, he enjoyed just being around him.

It was kind of pathetic, that he'd never enjoyed the company of his wives nearly as much as he enjoyed the company of a man he barely even knew anything about.

---

Wilson yawned, as he walked down the hallway, and then stopped, turning around, and looking in the room he had just passed.

It was House, as he had thought, standing by an empty bed.

He looked up, as Wilson slid the door open, "you know them?"

House shook his head, "I'm missing something. Some doc in neuro asked for a consult, but I'm missing something."

He picked up the pillow, looking at it, sniffed it.

Wilson blinked at his friend, "what are you doing?"

House frowned, handing it to Wilson, "smell it."

Wilson did.

It smelled sweet...

"Grapey, right?"

Wilson nodded.

House grinned, "you got anything urgent?"

Wilson shook his head.

"Good, 'cause the patient's in the MRI, and I can't go in the room to turn the damn thing off without my leg flying across the room."

Wilson followed him out of the room at a surprising speed–he'd never seen the older doctor move that fast, although he supposed he knew he was able.

They reached radiology, and House told him to go in and turn it off, and then leave.

Wilson did, wincing as the guy sitting at the desk yelled at him for an explanation.

House walked in then, brandishing the pillow, "smell this!"

Wilson smiled a little, into his hand, as House waved the pillow around the doctor's head–Dr. Foreman, his nametag said, "what more proof do you need, man!?"

He did like House's antics, sometimes.

He was a little ashamed to admit it, because they were often so juvenile, but the man did have a gift for mayhem.

---

"You wanna get lunch?" asked House, after they had left the radiology wing.

Wilson sighed, "I can't, I've got a patient meeting"

But House had stopped listening at the sound of clacking, high-heeled footstep approaching.

Lisa Cuddy, MD.

Wilson blinked, "uh, hi..."

"House."

"Cuddy."

"I heard you were here for a consult."

"I was. Now I'm leaving."

"I want to talk to you. Now."

"Well I don't. Ever."

"You're having this conversation, House."

"You're not my boss."

"I'm his boss. I can make Wilson stay all week if I want to."

"Go ahead, I don't care."

He walked past her, and pushed the button for the elevator.

Wilson sighed, looking at cuddy with a pained expression on his face, "what's so important that you had to be that stupid?"

"I need a real diagnostics department."

"Well, I think it's pretty clear that he isn't interested. Now can I go, or do I have to stay here all week?"

---

House looked up, as Wilson came in, collapsing his umbrella and resting it against the wall.

"Hey."

"Hey," said Wilson, coming in and sitting in the armchair, rather than on the couch next to his friend like he usually did.

"She wouldn't really have made you stay at the hospital for an entire week."

"I know. She said she offered you a job as a department head."

"Yeah."

"It'd pay better than the college."

"It would."

House's eyes were fixed on the TV, but he didn't look like he was paying attention to it.

"I take it you think I should accept."

"No, I'm just trying to make conversation."

House looked at him, as though not entirely sure if he were joking or not.

Wilson wasn't really that sure himself.

"My dad's dying."

Wilson blinked, slowly.

"Is he really, or a you just changing the topic?"

"Both."

"Oh. Did you just find out?"

"My mom called me when I was on the way home."

"You don't seem that upset."

"I'm not. I hate him."

"You don't seem that happy, either."

"My mom's upset."

"You don't hate her?"

"No. I love her."

"And you're upset that she's upset?"

House nodded.

Wilson got up, and sat down on the couch.

"House?"

"Hmm?"

"You wanna go get smashed?"

House nodded.

Wilson got his coat, and handed House his.

---

It turned out, reflected Wilson, as he slumped against his friend's shoulder, that House drunk wasn't all that different than House sober.

He smiled a little more easily, and seemed to have more trouble walking, but other than that, he was just... House.

Or so Wilson thought, until he felt House's arm wrap around his shoulders, and House's breath on his face, smelling of whiskey and beer, and underneath that... just... *House*.

They stumbled out of the bar–around the corner from the one House played piano at–and flagged down a cab.

Wilson ended up sitting against the side of the cab, his friend passed out against his side.

He felt something stir in his pants, which was actually pretty remarkable, given how much alcohol he'd had, as he held his friend's body against his own.

House raised his head, drunkenly, as Wilson shook him.

"I'm gonna kiss you," slurred Wilson.

House didn't say anything, but when Wilson did kiss him, he opened his mouth.

---

Wilson groaned, scrunching his eyelids shut against the light shining through them.

He tried to sit up, but there was something heavy and warm on top of him.

He finally was reduced to actually opening his eyes, after a good deal of clumsy shoving and pulling.

There was a man on top of him, snoring gently into his neck.

He pushed on the man's shoulder, trying to roll him off, but finding that he was just too hung over and dizzy to manage it.

He gave up, and closed his eyes again, breathing in the man's scent.

It was comfortable and familiar, and made him want to smile despite his nausea and headache.

That was good, then.

Someone he knew.

He let himself pass out again.

---

When he woke, the man on top of him was retching, and he did push him off.

He sat up, and blinked, when he realized it was House....naked.

Completely naked.

Wilson groaned, and reached for a pillow to put over his face, but didn't find one.

He looked around.

They were on the kitchen floor.

He groaned, and laid back, putting his hands over his eyes.

He remembered getting in the cab, and he remembered House waking up and looking at him, and he remembered saying something, and he was pretty sure he remembered kissing House and House kissing back, but...

All he remembered after that was warmth.

---

"Wilson?"

"Hmm?"

"Did we have sex last night?"

"I don't know."

"Oh."

"Did we?"

"I think so."

"Oh."

Wilson wrapped his arm over his friend's waist, "come back here."

House did, draping himself over his friend's chest.

Wilson's hand trailed over his back, gently.

House closed his eyes, breathing in his friend's scent as he buried his face in the younger man's neck.

He supposed it didn't really matter if they'd actually had sex or not.

They were lying naked on the kitchen floor together.

Actual intercourse seemed rather irrelevant once you were naked on the kitchen floor together.

He just hoped he'd had the presence of mind to plug his leg in last night.

---

Wilson supposed House would let this be forgotten if he wanted it to be... they had booth been drunk off their asses, and whatever happened probably wouldn't have happened if they were sober.

But House feels nice lying on top of him like this.

He closes his eyes, and goes back to sleep.

---

A few hours later, they finally get up off the kitchen floor, or at least Wilson does.

House sits there and waits for his friend to got get his crutches.

Wilson comes back with the crutches, "your leg is on the floor by the TV."

House grimaced, standing up, "dammit."

Wilson started to laugh.

House looked at him, raising an eyebrow, "what?"

"I'm sorry... I'm.... I'm just... really happy."

House didn't say anything, but his expression said more than words would have.

It said "god, you're incredibly pathetic.", and his words would have said that just fine. But his expression also said "but I love you anyway you idiot", and he would never have said that out loud.

He doesn't really care that they haven't talked about what this means, if they're just friends who slept together and are going to ignore it, or if they're friends that slept together and are going to sleep together again in the future, or if they're more than that, and want to become more than even what they are now.

He doesn't care, because House doesn't care, and because it's just so comfortable, not talking about it.

Wilson realizes that they actually haven't ever talked about anything between the two of them; House never said he could start living on the couch, he just did. They never started calling each other friends, but they are. Wilson didn't ask permission before kissing him, but House opened his mouth anyway.

It's the first time Wilson hasn't had to talk to someone about "them", and....

It's wonderful.

It's goddamn wonderful.

---

A week later, Wilson drags his blanket and pillow into House's bedroom, and curls up on the bed next to his friend.

An arm slides around his waist.

And he smiles.


End file.
